non, je ne regrette rien
by lydiamartins
Summary: He feels like coming home. -— MassieDerrick


_I'm not going to Columbia, _Claire tells her on a Wednesday afternoon.

It's two weeks into the summer holidays after senior year, and Massie paints her nails a dark fuchsia red, legs crossed and head bent low, and remembers, sipping on a glass of pinot, that Claire is probably her only friend. _Then where are you going? It's not as though your parents can just buy your way into an Ivy League – god's sake, Claire, you should just take the opportunity of a lifetime._

_I've gotten an offer, _Claire says, almost boldly, in defiance, and Massie rolls her eyes for a moment, because in a way, Claire acts as though she's still the omega, and Massie's still the alpha, and it's a bit high school and immature for the both of them. _I've gotten an offer to work with a film agency, and I've decided to take it._

_That's good for you, Claire, _she replies, bitter words; there's a moment of silence, and then a slammed bedroom door, and then Massie's alone once more, just the way she likes it. She stares out of the Block mansion windows, into the starry expanse of skies, gauzy chain of stars, beneath at the moon-touched soil, covered by fake green grass, and thinks that Westchester is a little too small for a girl with dreams like her.

_I'd just like to escape, _she tells a mirror, _I'd just like to escape and go somewhere where my problems can't find me. _So, Massie forgoes the primer rule of being a Block, and escapes the pretentious town of Westchester, destination: anywhere.

.

There is James and there is London, and there is a wonderful city with red-and-white, delicate people who follow etiquette and drink bittersweet tea. There is Josh and there is Barcelona, hot summer nights of drifting, wandering aimlessly through the streets, hiding underneath the bridges, climbing the towers and big smiles. There is Cameron and there is Scotland, dancing and tight-knit families which weave her into their own, and she feels at home (for a while). But they are all boys, simple flings to pass the time, and she'd rather have something to hold onto than ephemeral emotional attachments.

It's been nine months, there have been three boys from three different destinations, and Massie feels completely stupid. She might as well go back to Westchester. Or the 15th century. Or a production of Romeo and Juliet, if she's falling in love this often. As she walks through the streets of Paris, purple beret blending in with the colorful night landscape, Massie inhales a sip of the fresh air, and makes a promise to herself that she won't fall in love again.

And, that's when she sees Derrick Harrington (the boy from eighth grade, the year of innocence turning convoluted, nothing more than bad memories – except perhaps he was the only spark of light), and thinks, _promises were only meant to be broken._

.

_Massie, _he says stiffly, because the last time that they saw each other, it had been one of those cliché break-ups, initiated by nobody other than herself, and first loves were residual things that weren't meant to rise up again. Until they do. _Didn't think I'd see you here._

_What's that supposed to mean? _She stares into his convoluted eyes, like an abyss glaring back up at her, and feels as though she could fall into oblivion, staring into his eyes; they remind her of puppies and a childhood that never existed.

He says, _You don't seem like the type of girl who travels alone._

_What makes you say that I'm travelling alone? _She replies, placing her phone in the back corner of a Prada purse, accoutrements in accord with one another, and thinks that if there was an outfit in which she would meet her first ex, this wouldn't have been the worst.

_The fact that you're wandering the streets of Paris, and checking your phone constantly, probably because your friends didn't want to come with you, and nobody back home wanted to leave university for a trip to Paris, because they have better things to do in their lives. _Derrick seems rather ebullient with his deductions, as though he's excogitated, pondered the meaning of her deliberately planned actions for hours.

_I could say the same about you. And, maybe I've changed._

_I doubt it. _There are perhaps a plethora of things that Massie hates about Derrick Harrington, but the thing that she hates most about him is the way that he assumes – the way he assumes that she's just a little girl, somebody who needs to be taken care of. Because she's not that little girl anymore.

Unencumbered from months of travels, she refrains from hiding behind retorts and instead chooses to reply with, _There are a lot of things that you don't know about me, Derrick Harrington._

_Maybe I'd like to get to you know you better – over a croissant, maybe?_

She raises an eyebrow, amber eyes rolled once more. _Let's get this straight – I'm only going to eat a croissant with you because I'm starving and I don't know any good restaurants here. Okay?_

_Okay. _The two of them step onto the curb, into the chill of the afternoon air; the sun shines in a luminescent manner behind archaic buildings - it's autumn, fading into the depths of winter, and Massie thinks that she would like to see Paris in the winter, blanketed under layers of snow. She'd like to see flowers blooming, spin around in the rain (under umbrellas with something to cover her hair) in the spring, sip ice-cold lemonade and see fireworks in the summer; Paris feels like home.

_Okay._

_Stop saying that. _He takes her hand, smiling, and the corners of her lips curl up, because how could they not - Derrick Harrington has starry lights in his eyes, and something that reminds her of magic.

_._

_So, what do you think?_

She stops between a bite, the fluffy filling sticking to the front of her teeth, lipstick smudged by the crust, and Massie wipes off the external powder with a silk napkin. _You've got good taste, Harrington._

_I've missed you, _he mutters and her first reaction is what the hell are you supposed to say to that? Massie almost spits out her croissant – she would have, if she wasn't so hungry, in need of food more substantial than the diet of fruit yogurts and spinach smoothies which had worked well enough back in Westchester.

_Um, _changing of the topics is always nice and not at all awkward in these sorts of situations, _I'll see you some time soon, maybe? Where are you staying?_ She asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin and taking out a few euros to pay for the meal; a trombone echoes from the streets, smiles wide from passing strangers, and it's a little too foreign, sometimes. _I'm at sort of five-star hotel around here – I'm guessing the same about you._

_I'm actually in a foreign exchange program. _

_The Harrington Family is okay with something as non-prestigious such as that? _She asks, confused – it seemed as though everybody had changed and suddenly matured, and left her in the dust, but perhaps Massie had changed over the years, too.

_I convinced my dad that it's educational, _he says, absinthe eyes flickering with amusement; succulent azaleas line the street, sublime odors blending in with the marketplace ambiance.

_Right. Of course. _

_I'll see you around, Block, _he murmurs, voice low like gravel and sweet honey mixed, words tainting her lips like a promise already being forgotten.

_Wait, Derrick – I've always wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, and I had two tickets, so I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go? _Massie hates herself for sounding so desperate, because for god's sake, she's not even in love with him – perhaps, there are some residual feelings between the two of them, scattered ones, but in a good relationship, people don't change each other. She'd rather just be herself than be a love-struck idiot, because that's not who 'Massie Block' is meant to be.

There's silence for a moment, before a smile spills across his face, _I'd like that._

_._

An eternity later, under the night lights of Paris, she slips her hand into Derrick's, and for a painstakingly long moment which feels like eternity, his palm is stiff, but then relaxes into her own. Her lips brush against his, paper fingers entwined with one another, and it feels like coming home.


End file.
